


Moonpied

by super_bat



Series: Grimmons Oneshots [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Basically PWP, Fingering, First Person, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Minor Kink, NSFW, Porn, Simmons POV, Spanking, Trans Dick Simmons, grif gets sexual about food, written ambiguously so simmons can be read as trans or not if you want
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-12-14 04:54:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11775924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/super_bat/pseuds/super_bat
Summary: Based off the prompt "Every time Grif eats something really tasty he moans sexually and Simmons is closeted and confused."--"Fuck. Fucking shit. This is it. This is how I will go. Lack of bloodflow to the brain from fucking Dexter Grif talking dirty to his food like a moron. I can’t believe this."





	Moonpied

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to @whatthefuckisasweep on tumblr for this prompt, it quickly got out of hand and devolved into porn, godbless.

Crisis are not unusual for me. Grif calls me pathetic, makes fun of my tendency to have breakdowns over what he calls “inconsequential shit” (as if keeping your eating space SANITARY is a thing that doesn’t matter,) and I know I’m a little more ridiculous than most other people with how often I freak out over things.

But this. This is on a whole other level.

I’ll admit, sometimes my reactions can be….over dramatic. Sometimes I get worked up and explode even though the thing I’m flipping out over doesn’t matter that much. But not this time.

This time I think I might actually die. If this problem is not immediately addressed, my tombstone might as well read: Richard Simmons, died of not dealing with his problem and suffering through agonizingly until it killed him.

So therefore I am COMPLETELY justified in taking whatever measures to ensure that I don’t die, right? Obviously. Completely reasonable. Only Grif doesn’t seem to think so.

“Dude, so fucking help me, if you stole my goddamn moonpies again I WILL kill Donut and plant evidence to make sure your superiors think it was you.”

I swallow. Joking about getting in trouble with superiors has never been funny. _If_ Grif is even joking. When it comes to snack cakes, there is a very high chance he isn’t. But is that as bad as the alternative? My face pinches together in concentration as I try to weigh it out.

“Dude, why do you look like you’re taking a shit?” Grif asks. “Just tell me, do you have my food or not?”

I throw my hands up in surrender. “Fine!” I shout. “Your junk food is on the top shelf, behind my healthy cereal!”

Grif looks seriously put out. “Really, man? a) You know I can’t reach that high, and b) you know I would never touch your disgusting pencil shaving old-man cereal shit. Dick move, Dick.”

I look on morosely, not saying anything in response as Grif pulls a chair over to the pantry to get his snacks. It was worth a shot (and had been the most recent of many,) but like the weak willed, chicken shit I actually am, I always bend and give Grif what he wants.

So scratch my earlier comment. My tombstone will read: Richard Simmons, died of cowardice and not being able to say “no.”

I’m broken from my thoughts and thrown right back into my hell as I realize Grif has gotten his treats and is starting to eat them.

“Oooh, oh my god. Mmmmm. I needed this.” Grif moans around his cake.

It should be totally and completely disgusting. It’s not, and I definitely feel heat where I should not right now.

“Mmmmmmoooooh, yeah baby.” Grif manages to sound lowly, like he’s goddamn fucking his goddamn snack. “You always know what I need.”

Fuck. Fucking shit. This is it. This is how I will go. Lack of bloodflow to the brain from fucking Dexter Grif talking dirty to his food like a moron. I can’t believe this.

And in the moment, I have absolutely no control. Driven by frustration, I walk almost robotically up to Grif, and snatch the cake directly out of his hand, leaving his mouth open and ready for another bite that never comes.

His face has brown crumbs stuck on the sides of his open mouth, and it’s frozen in surprise for a moment before his eyes narrow quickly and his powdery lips grimace into a frown.

“You have exactly ten seconds to give me a good fucking reason you did that before I kill you and finish eating that thing over your corpse.” Grif growls, and he sounds entirely serious.

I gulp and stutter intelligently: “I…I…I…um, I…”

Grif’s eyes narrow and his stance changes to that of a cat getting ready to pounce.

My eyes slam shut and my survivor’s instincts force me to yell out a proper answer before a hunger-crazed Grif can actually do anything to me.

“You can’t! ...you can’t make those noises.”

Grif stands still, no longer about to come at me, and my shoulders relax only slightly.

“…noises.” He monotones, like I said something stupid.

I nod quickly, not thinking about where I was going with this, and more concerned with Grif not killing me over stealing his food. I’d seen what he did to Caboose that one time the kid took his frozen waffles. It’s literally the only time the man had looked intimidating in the slightest and it never left my memory.

“You make them every time you eat! And, you can’t. Make them. Anymore. So,” I lick my lips in nervousness, “I had to…take…it.” I finish weakly.

Grif’s face is unreadable. I don’t know what to do. It feels like an unpredictable standoff, me there awkwardly with a half eaten cake in one hand, Grif standing motionless and blank across from me.

And then his face splits into the worst thing I’ve ever seen, something between a sultry stare and one of Tucker’s flirtatious leers. It’s terrible, and my body immediately responds to it against my will and any kind of logic.

“Turned on by my voice are we, Simmons?”

And I KNOW that asshole is making fun of me, and I can’t. I cannot deal with it. My face is probably bright red at being caught out, and I just want to escape back to my room and hide forever, so that’s what I start out to do.

But Grif doesn’t let me pass. His large hand encircles my entire wrist and doesn’t budge.

“Wait,” and he sounds slightly less teasing, now that he’s realizing I’m not joking back and am trying to run away. “You’re actually serious?”

This is literally what hell feels like. Fuck the freelancers and their shit, fuck being hit with bullets, fuck Sarge's mad scientist experiments, this is the actual worst feeling in the world. I want to die.

I try to rip my hand from his grasp, feeling moments away from crying, which would only make the whole thing more humiliating.

“Man, just quit it. You’re not going anywhere.” I vaguely hear Grif say, but I’m more wrapped up in my internal panic. My thoughts are racing, my breaths are speeding up, the walls are closing in, and- oh.

There’s a mouth on mine. It’s Grif’s. It tastes like artificial sugar. What the fuck.

I shove him back harshly, hand coming up to wipe away the food that transferred to my own face.

“What the hell, Grif!” I try to yell, but it comes out more like a high pitched squeak.

Grif doesn’t look too perturbed. “Well, you’re not panicking anymore, are you?”

I stare at him for a moment. My chest suddenly feels very heavy for some reason as I realize what’s happening.

“You’d really go that far to make fun of me?” I spit, now abruptly feeling angry.

Grif looks at me like I just said the square root of pi wasn’t an infinite.

“Are you that fucking dense?” he asks, and I don’t have any more time to process before he pulls my face back in.

I don’t know why, but I let him kiss me this time. Well, I do know why, but I don’t actually want to admit that I’d been secretly wanting this exact thing for months, so I pretend like I don’t know why.

His eyes are closed, but mine aren’t and I can see his face. He looks intent, like he’s actually trying, and fucking hell it feels like he is too. It’s…more than nice. It’s fucking incredible, and everything feels hot, hotter than it ever had, than every time he made those stupid inappropriate noises. I can’t stop my mouth from falling open a little wider, and he takes full advantage. At some point I actually ended up closing my eyes too.

I can feel him pulling me closer, one hand braced behind my neck and the other working my lower back. It’s much, much, too much to be just mockery and all of a sudden I’m overwhelmed. Between the sudden revelation and Grif still kissing me, I can’t catch a breath.

Grif thankfully seems to notice and backs up.

“You…” I try, but the air still isn’t making it to my lungs. “You’re not…making fun…you actually…”

Grif’s eyes roll. “What tipped you off? The sucking face or the fact that I’ve been making sex noises in front of you for weeks?”

I can feel my eyes bugging. “You WHAT?” I hate the shrillness of my own voice. “Th-that was on PURPOSE?”

It’s like everything I had known suddenly was flipped and I found out that Star Wars and Star Trek are actually in the same universe. Only instead I’m just realizing that the source of my fucking misery this whole time had been not my fault and completely INTENTIONAL.

Grif snorts. “Did you actually think I made those noises every time I ate? Do you think I made those noises in front of _Sarge_? Hell, can you imagine what Donut would fucking do?” Grif gives a shudder.

“But….but…” It’s still not making sense to me. “…WHY??”

Grif looks at me again like I’m the epitome of stupid and it sends a trill of irritation up my spine.

“Are you fucking serious?” he demands, and I feel like I did when my 8th grade teacher chewed me out for missing a basic math question because she had asked me to answer in front of everyone.

He gives me a moment to answer, and when I don’t, he lets out a huff. “Why’d you kiss me back then?” he asks me.

I don’t know what to say, but I feel like this is a Serious and Important moment, so I go for honesty.

“Because…I….wanted you to kiss me?” I say, as if I’m testing for the right answer.

“Well, ditto man.” Grif says like it's nothing, like my admission hadn’t taken everything in me to actually say. It annoys me.

Grif doesn’t sense this, rather choosing to drift his gaze more pointedly downward, and points at my pants as if he can tell exactly how he’s been affecting me.

“And ditto to that too.” He says, and I can’t help it, that was such a fucking dumb and _Grif_ thing to say, and I laugh.

I feel the irritation leave, I feel weeks of tension and frustration ease, I feel anxieties I wasn’t even aware of completely shut up in my brain.

I’m not some weirdo who suddenly developed a boner for his male teammate, who was bizarrely turned on by the sound of him eating food.

Grif seems pleased if not slightly puzzled by my sudden change in demeanor, and lets me get the rest of the laughter out.

“Ok then, uh, can we like, get back to…” he gestures between us and suddenly I’m entirely sober, hilarity gone. There are nervous jitters again, but they’re different.

This is Dexter Grif, lazy slob and teammate, the man I’d been practically drooling over like a pubescent boy with a crush, for entirely too long. And he wants to-

Grif seems to take my silence as permission, and all but attacks my face. He’s sloppy, and less focused than he was just a minute ago, and he’s getting spit everywhere. I love it.

He starts slowing down, and his pace becomes lazy, practically dragging across my mouth, and it’s something that is so entirely Grif that I can’t help the weird twisty feeling it causes in my chest.

He’s slowly moving us backwards as we kiss, until I feel my legs hit the couch and we fall back. We disconnect briefly during the fall, but it doesn’t matter as he starts right back up, leading the whole way and drowning me in the feeling.

His scruff brushes my face over and over, and I want to cry in joy over it. The heat of his tongue is making everything feel a little hazy, and I don’t want it to stop, ever. It was like suddenly being granted everything you had ever desired, only it was way better than you had ever imagined.

I’m so focused on his mouth that I don’t notice his travelling hand until his fingers catch in between my stomach and the waist of my pants, and tug.

My face becomes hot enough I can feel it, and I don’t want to be embarrassed, but I am. I’m not used to this.

I let him continue to pull them down, and do whatever he wants really, because he seems to know what he’s doing and it feels nice to let him take direction for once.

As soon as my pants are around my knees, he stops to reach his hand back up to my boxers. It feels extremely awkward to leave them there, so I kick them the rest of the way off.

“Hey,” his voice sounds sharp and very low as he finally retracts from our kiss to talk to me, “did I tell you to do that?” His voice practically reverberates around my head with all the authority of a command from a superior and my gut reaction is to apologize and comply instantly.

Holy. Fucking. Shit. I feel any remaining blood travel from my head down south and damn if those boxers suddenly feel way too in the way and inconvenient.

Grif’s mouth curls like the cat who got the fucking cream and he mutters under his breath. “Knew that would be your fucking thing.”

He moves both of his hands to the front of my boxers, and I drop my indignant response to being found so easily predictable. Instead I’m shivering in anticipation. He makes eye contact with me, and opens his mouth.

“How about this. You do exactly what I say, what I want, like a good boy, and I’ll tell you exactly how good you’re doing?” his expression betrays that he knows exactly what I’m going to say, and he’s not wrong.

I feel so lightheaded and aroused that I can only manage to nod my head frantically, any sound turning into a moan as his hands place pressure in specific places over my boxers, and I hear him give a satisfied chuckle.

I’m feeling just on the edge of desperate when Grif finally takes the damn boxers off, and all of a sudden I start feeling aware enough to be self conscious.

“Wait,” I say as my legs come up to protect myself somewhat. “This is kind of weird. I mean we’re both still almost all the way dressed.”

Grif rolls his eyes and shucks his shirt and pants faster than I’ve seen him do anything in his life before.

“There. Your turn.”

I stare uncomprehendingly for a second until I realize he means my shirt. I pull the thing off reluctantly, but I’m determined not to ruin this because I really would like to get back to what we were doing.

Grif doesn’t seem too bothered by us both suddenly being completely undressed, but I’m trying hard not feel like I’m being scrutinized. I feel pale and scrawny, covered in freckles, filled with robot parts that don’t belong there, and....and...

Grif, on the other hand, is dark where his skin isn’t mine, and not scrawny in the slightest (rather the opposite, he looks soft and inviting,) and he’s got body hair and he looks like a man and oh _shit,_ I can feel myself spiraling down into self-consciousness…

And Grif must notice, because the next thing he does is lean over me to whisper in my ear, “You look so fuckin good,” and I’m speechless. I don’t think Grif has ever complimented me sincerely in the entire time I’ve known him, and he sounded completely serious. More than that, he sounded _turned on_.

I’m now feeling entirely impatient, like Grif’s lit a fire in my stomach and its propelling me to keep going. I turn my face towards his, straining for another kiss.

“Nuh uh,” Grif lifts a finger over my lips, “I said we would do it my way. That means I get to decide when you get what.”

I wanted to kiss him so badly I almost go “fuck that,” but downstairs is just far too happy about Grif’s controlling tone for me to actually do that.

Grif notices too. Damn. I feel like after this I’m going to be a lot more embarrassed about all this than I currently am.

It feels like slow motion as I see Grif’s hand move south, anticipation and need having built up. I still feel like I’m not ready when he actually makes contact.

It’s not like exploding fireworks or anything (it’s just a hand, after all,) but it’s _Grif’s hand_ and that changes completely everything. I’m in fucking heaven.

He moves against me like he kisses, slowly and lazily, his large hand dragging lightly along in what turns into painful strokes. Every back and forth motion pulls another whine from the back of my throat, but I’m not going to fucking beg like I know he’s trying to make me do. I know he won’t do jack shit if I just ask him, he’s too high on his current power trip over me.

I need more pressure, more friction, faster, now. And I’m struggling with that intense need and my desire to maintain my pride, when I hear Grif laugh.

“Do you know how fucking good you look right now? Fucking hell.” Grif says again, also sincerely, and FUCK if that isn’t just too fucking much.

“Please, Grif, PLEASE, oh my god, Grif just - more, please, please,” it spills from my mouth like a fucking prayer because oh my god. Grif.

Grif, that fucking asshole, seems to take pleasure in my desperation, and removes his fucking hand. If I wasn’t close to crying earlier, I certainly am now.

But the world rights itself again when I realize what he’s doing, positioning himself over me so he can get some reprieve along with me. He lines up perfectly along me, and _sweet hell_ the pressure and contact are glorious.

His pace this time is more bearable, but still in short bursts he doesn’t maintain for long. The periods in between his movement has me feeling like I’m going to explode from the inside out.

With an abrupt stop, he pulls off me. “What are you comfortable with?” he asks, like he hadn’t just stopped mid sex to ask me that question.

I groan in utter disbelief. “You fucker, it’s a little late for that, get fucking back here-”

Grif cuts me off. “No, I mean right now. Cause if you’re interested…” he trails off, waiting for something, but I really could care less what.

“Don’t ask me. I thought you were going to be in charge and tell me what to do and shit,” I say trying to sound put out (which I am) more than I am embarrassed to say that.

Grif’s lips curl into a smirk. “Sweet.” he says, and he gets up and walks away.

I stay lying there on the couch, in total confusion, for about 20 seconds before he comes lumbering back in, looking awkward with how stiff he is, holding a clear bottle.

He snaps the cap off and squirts clear fluid onto his fingertips, getting a good coating.

“Now then, how about you turn over for me?” Grif doesn’t so much ask as tell me.

I swallow, and I’m not feeling too keen on doing that with the prickles of shame I feel crawling up my back, but I’m far more interested in obeying Grif than listening to my own inhibitions.

I flop myself over swiftly, and I can feel my flush spread from my face and neck down my shoulders, even my back, as Grif uses his dry hand to grip my hips and pull them upward, snatching a pillow to put beneath them, my weight resting on my knees.

“I know I have big fingers so normally I’d eat you out first,” he offers apologetically, “but I haven’t shaved so you’d get a nasty beard burn if I did.”

“GRIF!” I exclaim in mortification. “You don’t just... _say_ things like that!”

Grif smirks again. Not that I can see his face, but I know he is. “Not all of us are prissy virgins, Simmons.” He snarks. “Now how about we get to it without anymore back talking?” he almost mockingly commands, bringing down his hand to make a resounding SLAP! across my ass.

I can feel my toes curl and my back arch in response to the reprimand, and the heat in the room intensifies tenfold. I have no control over the moan that passes my lips, almost guttural and wanton.

“Whoa,” Grif breathes. “You enjoyed that _way_ too much.” he observes as he brings his hand back down again the same way, and another time and another, the loud smacks almost echoing around the room.

“Hhhhhhhhh…..mmmmmm…” I can’t hold back any of the noises the stinging blows are drawing from me, Grif’s voice in my ear amplifying everything I’m feeling.

“Look at you, so pretty, taking it like a good boy.” Grif whispers, filthily, and I feel absolutely dirty and incredible at the same time. My legs are trembling under my own weight, and the room is starting to blur.

Grif lets one more, harder slap fall, causing a sharp “AH!” to rush from me, before he resumes his original intent by drawing his fingers along my ass, the lube leaving sticky trails over the hot, red skin.

I feel a finger begin to probe at my entrance, and I go rigid in response. This is it. I’m nervous, but I’m more turned on and I need him to just do it already.

I feel the finger circle a few times, teasingly push a bit, the retract to do the same thing again. After about a minute I’m almost ready to whine for him to fucking _get on with it_ , when he gently coaxes one finger in. The intrusion fees odd, but not unpleasant. Certainly not unwelcome.

I wriggle a bit, and Grif slaps me again. “Stay still.” he orders, and I do. _Fuck_. His voice sounds so good when he does that.

He presses the finger in further without a problem, and draws it back out slowly, only to repeat the process. The movement doesn’t take long to start feeling very good.

I almost cry out in complaint when he withdraws fully, but snap my mouth shut when I feel a second finger join the first. There’s actually a stretch this time, but after no more than a few seconds the burn is replaced with that incredibly good feeling as he resumes fucking his fingers in and out.

I feel good for several long minutes before Grif switches up what he’s doing, fingers moving like they’re looking for something now. Every adjustment in angle feels incredible. Then he hits _the spot_. 

“FUCK!” I shout, feeling like it was punched out of me. I see stars behind my eyes as Grif hits it again. “Fuckfuckfuckfuck, ooooh my god, Griiiiiiif,” I moan, probably sounding no better than a half-rate porn star, and Grif grunts in response.

Grif stops and removes his hand, and I struggle to keep breathing. I don’t like the sudden empty feeling. When he moves back with a third finger, I bite my lip in preparation.

The stretch wasn’t as bad as I expected, but it’s still a good one, slightly sharper than the last one, but I adjust just as quickly.

His pace becomes brutal, not focusing so much on the spot that drives me crazy, but brushing it every few slides enough that it feels like a tease.

I feel full, stretched and open, and it’s so good I almost can’t stand it. I feel the lube leaking out with every thrust, slicking the way, and Grif feels like he manages to go impossibly deeper every time.

My gut feels like it's in knots, a ball of tension gathering in the center.

“C’mon baby,” I hear Grif encourages, and my body quakes as the tension gets tighter, coiling like a sharp heat and spreading a tingle from my scalp, all the way to my toes.

Grif manages to get a good thrust into that one spot, and my vision whites behind my closed eyes. My toes curl again, and my back arches, and I have no clue what kind of sounds I’m making.

  
When I come down, I can see Grif breathing just as hard as me, his dark curls in disarray, eyes on me in almost-reverence. I manage to calm my breaths enough to formulate a question.

“I thought...you were going to fuck me?”

Grif lets forth a bubble of laughter, and it’s a beautiful sound, why hadn’t I noticed before how much I love that sound?

“There is no way you could handle a dick on your first try.” he sounds certain. “Not mine, at least.” He sounds way too smug, but I’m too wiped to do anything about it right now.

“What about...you?” I gesture at him tiredly.

“Oh,” Grif manages to sound somewhere between sheepish and proud, “That’s totally taken care of.” His leer spreads. “You should have seen yourself.”

“No thanks.” I shut him down quickly, not interested in what else he would add onto that, already fighting back the blush from the knowledge that _he got off just by watching me._

As I sink back further into the pillows, I feel exhaustion creep on, casually observing that the detergent Donut uses on the pillows is lavender scented and that we would have to replicate that when we washed them.

As sleep came on, I drowsily recognized the heavy weight of Grif, plastering himself against my side to fit on the couch, and inhale deeply. I drift off to scents of lavender, sex, Grif’s shampoo, and moonpies.


End file.
